


It Was Inevitable

by huhwhat



Category: Game Grumps, Ninja Sex Party - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Consensual Sex, F/M, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Hope you like dialogue, It's not all bad I swear, Oral Sex, Ouch, RPF, Smut, Unrequited Love, You are a cis female..., You make terrible choices, sorry 'bout it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-10 02:17:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15281391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huhwhat/pseuds/huhwhat
Summary: It didn't matter your decision. You still would have ended up hopelessly, stupidly in love with a man who didn't want to be with you.All rivers lead to the ocean, right?





	1. Chapter 1

        ‘ _Fuck.’_

This is your first hazy thought upon waking. Your second, ‘ _Ow.’_

        Your entire body aches and you’re pretty sure that whichever part you move first is going to creak and pop like an old house settling. A throbbing pressure pushes insistently at your temples and right behind your brow bone. You swallow nothing, mouth dry and sour, and wince when your throat burns. Eyelids like sandpaper scrape as they open just enough for you to immediately notice two things: a) the dimly-lit space is definitely your bathroom, because b) the reason for your chihuahua-esque shivering is that your arm is draped over the toilet seat as if it’s the shoulders of a dear friend.

       You groan low in your throat and begin to peel the side of your slick face off of your bicep, willing away the leaping, swaying dance of your insides.

       A rusty whisper leaves your lips – “I want to die.”

       “I wish you wouldn’t.”

       Your head snaps to the right and there’s Danny, smiling, his long body burrito’d in a blanket and overflowing from the bathtub. A quick, downward flick of your eyes reveals that the quilt which envelops your own body barely conceals shorts and a bra from the night before.

_‘What.’_

       A prickle of panic rises in your chest.

       “Oh, yeah, here!” He cranes his neck and reaches to the back corner of the tub, producing a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin. You just stare at them, breath quickening.

       ‘ _Oh my god. NO.’_

       “Danny…” you squeak, “…did we-…”

       “ _Oh!_ No! Fuck- _”_ His eyes go big and round, and there’s a flailing of limbs as he struggles for purchase in the tub. He manages a sitting position and leans forward, squeezing your toilet seat hand. “No. I promise you, nothing happened.”

       He’s telling the truth. That much you see in his eyes. And yet, something pokes at the back of your brain with a nagging finger.

       You remember being at the barbecue with Dan and your friends. Fine. You remember having some drinks. Whatever. The last memory before the nothing closes in, though…

       “I tried something, didn’t I?”

       This time he hesitates.

       “Oh, _no_ ,” you moan, shielding your eyes and burning cheeks with your hands. The fireworks. You’d been a few margaritas deep, a little lonely, inconceivably horny - and you’d watched the way the light of the Fourth of July fireworks played off his face. You’d marveled at the beauty of the colors bursting in his eyes and dancing along his cheekbones and crackling in his hair and-

       “Hey.” His voice is soft.

       “Danny, I’m so, so fucking sorry. You were my guest and I just- I’m _so_ sorry. Jesus, I-“ you mutter, tears stinging as they threaten to escape. He’d driven you home from the barbecue. He’d driven you home and guided you inside and you’d pounced. A distant, foggy recollection of his gentle insistence drifts into your mind, of his kind tone and warm hands halting your attempt to straddle his lap. “Fuck.”

       “Hey,” he repeats. One of the hands comes to rest on your lower back. “Please don’t apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

       The shame still coils and snarls inside you. Miserable, you pull your hands down from your face and brave a look into his. He’s smiling. A night in the tub has left his hair a frizzy disaster. You smile a little too.

       “I’m going to feel awful regardless.”

       “I know you are.”

        “Also, though, you didn’t have to sleep in the bathroom with me, dude. I had the couch all pimped out for you before we even left.”

       “Please, I’ve spent many a fuckin’ night in a bathtub. I’ve told you about, like, the entirety of my 20s.”

       “Right, right, you’re old.”

       “You’re hilarious.  And anyway, I wasn’t about to leave you in here by yourself. I’m pretty sure you would have slept in a puddle of your own puke.”

       “Wait, I puked?” you ask, wide-eyed and not entirely wanting an answer.

       He quirks an eyebrow.

       “Really?”

       “Christ. That’s a yes.”

       “That’s an ‘oh my god, so much puke.’ “

       “Oh, no.”

       “Ohhh, yes. I got your hair up in time, but you didn’t quite reach the toilet.“

       “Shit, I’m so sorry!” you whisper, gingerly patting the messy bun at the crown of your head as your eyes take a quick sweep around the room. But after clocking zero evidence of the mess… “You cleaned. Danny-”

       “A little,” he says with a tiny shrug. “Whatever. I couldn’t let you wake up to that. Speaking of which, your shirt’s soaking with some laundry detergent.”

       Your shirt. Remembering your half-undressed state, you pull the quilt tighter around you.

       He clearly notices, because he grimaces and adds, “I know, I’m so sorry. I tried to get you into another shirt, I swear. You absolutely refused to keep it on.” He gestures behind you. Sure enough, lying in a dejected heap on the floor is the striped pajama shirt you’d left on your bed the previous morning.

       “Jesus, seriously? I was a hot mess. I’m so sorry.” When your gaze shifts up again, there is only a reassuring kindness in his. “I really didn’t mean to get hammered.” ‘ _Or throw myself at you in a drunken stupor.’_

       Your ligaments crackle and groan as you ease your legs out from under you. The unyielding linoleum isn’t kind to your protesting muscles but you need to move.

       “Believe me, you were not the only one stumbling out of that party.” He grins and pulls himself up to sit on the edge of the tub, still cocooned in the fuzzy blanket. “You were just the only one who got me.” He holds out the water and aspirin again.

       This time you accept it.

       “Thank you so much, Danny. For taking care of me.”  The tentative sip is heaven on your raw esophagus. “You’re a really good person, you know that?”

       “Hey, we’ve all been there, sweetheart,” he says, leaning down to smooth your stringy hair back from your forehead. “Pay it forward.”

       A sudden shyness blooms in your chest.

       “But also, thank you for, like…” You trail off, searching for the words. ‘ _...not fucking the drunk horror show?’_ you think, fighting the urge to hide your face again.

       “…forrrr…” His brow furrows, then stretches smooth as he gives you an incredulous look. “…not _literally_ raping you? Jesus Christ-” A hand rakes through his hair, leaving some tufts upright in its wake. “That doesn’t deserve praise. That’s the bare minimum for human fucking decency.”

       “I know, but…thank you,” you say again, this time softer, sheepishly, crossing your legs as you burrow deeper into the warmth of the quilt.

       He’s quiet a moment, staring at the slender fingers fiddling with a loose thread on his own blanket. You take another sip, watching him out of the corner of your eye.

       “You were in no position to consent.”

       You’re caught off guard by a flutter in your belly that has nothing to do with the nausea that’s still coming in waves.

_‘Did he want it?’_

       Your cheeks warm and it takes a handful of seconds to muster up the courage from wherever the fuck before you can ask.

        “What if I had been?”

       He continues to fiddle with the thread but he pinks too, just a bit, as his sincere gaze snaps back up to meet yours.

       “Different story.”

_‘Jesus.’_

       A thrill tingles in your veins at the thought of him wanting you.

       “Wow,” you say dumbly. It’s all you can come up with, though, and it’s accurate. You treat yourself to an enormous mental facepalm anyway.

       “I really wish I one hundred percent knew how to interpret that ‘wow,’“ he chuckles nervously, scrubbing his face with his hands.

        Your response is immediate and thank god for that, because had it not been a reflex you might have lost your nerve - “Intrigued.” Another sip, this one hasty.

       His breath catches, and as you stare deliberately at the tiles lining the base of the tub he studies you without a word, as if trying to determine whether or not you’re joking.

       ‘ _GOD PLEASE SAY SOMETHING SAY ANYTHING NOW I DON’T CARE,’_ your mind screams at him, at both of you, until he blessedly breaks the silence.

        “Look, (y/n),” he begins, his tone soft but matter-of-fact. “I hope this isn’t way out of line, but…” - another small pause - “…I like you a lot and I think you’re cute as hell. I’m not looking for, like, a relationship-“

       “Ugh, me neither,” you interrupt, a grimace pulling your features downward.

       This earns a belly laugh from him, the sound of which rattles your buzzing head but also utterly obliterates the tension.

       “Ouch, woman! I didn’t say _UGH_! ” In his loosening grip, the blanket slips down off one shoulder.

        “Sorry,” you snicker. “It’s not-…I’m just-...” Your hands go up in a half-gesture and then fall uselessly.

       “No, I get it.” He shakes his head. “You just got out of a thing. And, I mean, you know my thoughts on relationships.”

       You do know. They’re about where your thoughts are after your boyfriend of two years had, less than three weeks prior, decided you and he were better apart and you’d agreed.

       Dan slides off the lip of the tub and sits cross-legged on the floor in front of you, knees grazing yours.

       “So...I didn’t think you were interested in anything, but then last night…”

       “I’m so sorry,” you groan.

       He giggles, his face lighting up.

       “Will you quit fucking apologizing? I’m glad it happened. I feel like I got some insight.” He smiles gently. “If I’m completely misreading everything then by all means, just tell me to fuck off and I’ll never bring it up again. But for real, now that you’re single, is-…is that something you’d want? With me? Something casual? No fuckin’ strings, just…friends? And stuff?”

       He looks so fucking earnest in that moment – and hopeful, with his chin resting in his palm like that -- but you can’t help yourself.

       “Why, Daniel Avidan,” you grin. “Are you inviting me into your harem?”

       “I don’t have a fucking-“ He cuts himself off with a sigh. “…Look, if you’re not into it-“

       “I didn’t say that.”

       His eyebrows shoot up under his hair and you regard him with a thoughtful frown. You’d only very recently allowed yourself to even acknowledge that your friend was as cute as he was. Your relationship blinders had been up for the 15 months or so in which you’d known him. When those blinders came down and you were allowed to notice other men again, the sweet, handsome rolling stone who currently sat on your bathroom floor in pajamas and socks was inevitably among them.

       You’d done the friends with benefits things with other guys, with varying degrees of success and hurt feelings. But Danny was good at that kind of thing, it seemed. If conversations you’d had with him in the past were any indication, he was open and honest both to and about the women in his life. Could you become one of them, though? Should you?

       “Just friends?”

       “Just friends.”

       You rest your arm on the seat again and press your throbbing temple into the crook of your elbow.

        “Can I think about it?”

        “Oh, god, please,” he says quickly, leaning back against the outer wall of the tub. “I don’t want you to regret your decision.”

        “I mean…if I say yes, you play a part in whether or not I regret it.”

        A moment’s hesitation, before -

        “Are you flirting with me with your head in a toilet?”

        “Trying to.”

        He giggles again and you smile, closing your eyes.

        “How about we revisit this conversation when you’re feeling better?”

        “Yeah, that’s probably a good call,” you mumble against your arm. “I will think about it, I promise.”

        “Do. Just-…” he falters. “Please know that I would be honored if you were to say yes. And if it’s a no, it won’t affect our friendship or how I feel about you. Zero pressure, seriously.”

         You crack your eyes open to see him looking at you, but before you can respond your stomach gives a furious, liquidy growl.

        “Jesus! Was that a puke warning or a hunger alert?”

        “Actually hunger, I think? I imagine there’s not a whole lot in there after last night,” you admit, allowing your eyes to drift shut again.

        “I’m gonna make you some white rice, yeah?” There’s the swish and rub of fabric as he stands. “You may be able to keep that down.” He places his blanket over the quilt on your shoulders.

        “That would be fucking amazing.”

        “You got a hair tie, though? This fro is only barely tamed, and I have a feeling the steam may do unspeakable things to it.”

        You thrust out your arm and he pulls the ever present spare off your wrist before pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Your dry lips stretch into a smile.

        “Hey, Danny?”

        “Yeah.”

        “Thanks for asking me to be one of your fuck buddies.”

        His sigh sags with weariness.

        You burst into giggles.

        “You regret it yet?”

        “ _Immediately,_ ” he replies, but there’s a smile in his voice and he kisses the same spot a second time. “Now shut the fuck up and drink some more water. Food will be in soon.”

        He shuffles to the door, and your belly gurgles as you take a deep, grounding breath.

        You’ll think about it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You make a poor choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends with benefits.
> 
> Smut ho!

                He picks up on the fourth ring.

                “Hey! What’s happenin’?”

                “I’m in.”

                “Holy shit, for real?”

                “For real.”

                “Dude, I can’t even-…I’m _so_ fucking excited that you’re saying yes. Seriously, I’m dancing here.”

                “I’m kind of nervous about it,” you admit.

                “I am too,” he assures you gently, “just because, like-…new things, you know?”

                “Exactly.”

                “Just remember, you can back out at any time. Before, during, after, doesn’t matter. We’re not signing a contract here.”

                You laugh.

                “A sex contract.”

                “I’m sure they exist. Extremely uncool.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Hey.”

                “Hey.”

                “You sure this is what you want? As of now, at least?”

                A squiggle of anxiety manifests in your gut.

                “Do you not?”

                He chuckles.

                “I think I made it pretty clear that I can’t wait to fuck you.”

                “Hnn.” The airy noise escapes your throat before you can stop it, and you’re grateful that at least he can’t see the flush that rises in your cheeks or the out-of-fucking-nowhere rush of heat to your panties.

                There’s a pause, and you die a little during it. But then-

                “Yeah, me too, babygirl.”

                ‘ _FUCK.’_ You sit heavily on the foot of your bed and take a shaky breath, forcing yourself to focus.

“So…when?” you ask the pro, unsure of how it all would go down. Did he have a time frame for stuff like this? A set of rules?

                “Well, I’d say next time we see each other, but I don’t want to put a lot of pressure on us that day. Should we, like, play it by ear? Just let it happen organically?”

                Your body deflates slightly as you exhale a sigh of relief.

                “I think that makes a lot of sense.”

                “Awesome. Oh my god, I’m so glad you’re in, you have no idea.” His vowels are bright and you know he’s speaking through a wide, sweet smile.

                “I am too, Danny. You’re making this really easy.”

                “That’s what she said?”

                You grin.

                “We’ll see what she says.”

 

 

****************************

 

 

                That’s how you end up, six weeks-ish later, getting fucked right into your couch by your friend Dan.

                It had started out innocently enough, so much so that you’d started to wonder if maybe he’d forgotten your conversation.

                He’d driven the three hours north to see you because, he swore, no one else was willing to monitor his attempt to make Skittles cookies. You’d agreed, you’d said, on the condition that if they were at all palatable he would pay for the movie you two were going to see that evening. And while that was true to a point, you’d mostly agreed on the chance that the night would end with him inside you.

                So far, though, there was no hint of what was to come.

                “This is _not_ going to work, Danny!” you squeal, delightfully horrified, from your perch on the kitchen counter as you peer into the giant mixing bowl in his arms. The different dyes have already started to bleed into the dough and each other.

                “Oh, but it is,” he giggles, struggling to stir it all together.

                “You can have some of mine when they’re ready,” you offer, referring to your batch of M&M cookie dough chilling in the fridge. “Just admit defeat, Avidan.”

                He glares at you.

                “Never.”

                “The colors are turning brown.”

                “Maybe I like brown Skittles.”

                “Fine. As you were.”

                “ _Thank_ you.” He tosses you a sassy look over his shoulder as he shuffles over to the baking sheet next to the oven.

               “You’re not going to chill it first?”

               “Excuse me, did you not just say ‘as you were?’ “

               “Ex _cuse_ me, did you not enlist my help to make these cookies actually edible?”

               He then mimics you in a high, nasally voice that sounds nothing like yours, causing you to laugh way too loudly for your tiny kitchen.

               You swing your legs, heels softly thunking the cupboard below you, and study the poor kid’s movements from behind as he attempts to roll the too-sticky dough into balls and slap them on the too-greased sheet.

               A slightly defeated sigh threatens to leave you.

              Had you trimmed the hedge and worn cute underwear for nothing? When he’d arrived at your apartment you’d opened the door expectantly, your brain and body jangling with nerves, and he’d swept you into a tight hug, but that was it. He’d jumped right into the cookie process and the two of you had fallen comfortably into your natural, normal, relaxed existence, which was just fine with you. You loved that shared existence, and it definitely set you more at ease than you had been the past couple days, but your relief was tinged with disappointment. Maybe a little more than tinged.

              “Aaaaaand done.” Pride colors his voice as he brandishes the baking sheet overcrowded with misshapen, kind-of-brown, kind-of-rainbow lumps.

              “Those are going to spread too much.”

              “Your mom’s going to spread too much.”

              “Okay.”

              “Okay.”

               He slides the sheet into the oven and, after fiddling with the timer, leans up against the counter by your side with his arms folded.

               “They’re going to be _so_ good,” he says.

               “You certainly took my direction well.”

               A surprised, wheezing laugh erupts from him, and his shoulders and hair shake with it.

               “I decided to go in a different direction.”

               “I noticed.”

                The smile on his face when he turns his head to you warms your heart and your mind - also, admittedly, your body.

                That’s when your bitchy old rescue cat slinks up to him and winds around his ankles briefly before stretching upwards, her front legs fully extended against his knees. She chirps, and your heart melts the rest of the way.

                “I can’t believe she likes you,” you say as he scoops her up and cradles her like a fucking baby. “You’re literally the only person she even tolerates besides me.”

                “I’ll take it,” he chuckles, his voice muffled a bit as she aggressively smashes and drags her face against his, purring like a nearby motorcycle. “You know why, though?”

                “Why?” you ask, then immediately realize your mistake when his eyes light up. “DON’T SAY-“

                “BECAUSE I’M-“

                “-YOU’RE THE PUSSY WHISPERER.”

                “-THE PU-…dammit.” His giggles peak abruptly and then slow until he’s just smiling at you again, a merry crinkle in the corners of his eyes. You smile right back, happy to just be in the presence of this goofy asshole.

                “Hey, (y/n)?” He eases the cat out of his arms and to the floor, where she flops onto her side and rubs her head with purpose on the corner of the wall. When he turns his face back to you and you see that he’s no longer smiling, your stomach does a great somersault.

                “Hey, Danny.”

                His hand passes through his hair and stops midway through, but he stays so quiet that you’re positive that he can hear the rapid pounding of your heart.

                ‘ _Oh god, is he-‘_

                “Can I, like, kiss you?”

                And suddenly it’s not enough just to be in his presence. Not at all.

                “Yes,” you breathe, without a second thought.

                He moves to stand in front of you, between your relaxed, open knees. He’s still significantly taller even though the counter top is giving you a boost, and so he looks down at you, eyes warm and nervous and excited and so beautiful. When he does this, the curls he’d allowed to grow frame his face like a curtain and it takes all your self-control not to just bury your hands in them. His own hand comes up to gently cup your increasingly toasty cheek as his gaze shifts to your lips.

                ‘ _DO IT,’_ your mind begs, because you can’t wait any more, because you need him to do it, and although he can’t hear you, he does it. His lips brush against yours once, soft and tentative, and your body reacts with a level of heat that’s almost laughably disproportionate to the short sweetness of the kiss.

                This visit that had started out innocent remains relatively so as he pulls back and his eyes pass over your face, gauging your reaction. You’re done for, though, and he reads that instantly. There’s much less innocence in the way he kisses you this time, long and fierce, fingers dancing along the bare skin of your thigh as he cradles the base of your skull. You get your chance now to plunge your hands into that thick, dark forest of hair and when your fingers curl among the strands, you’re rewarded with a delicious groan that sends sparks shooting down your spine.

                Even less innocent is the way he slides an arm under your ass and hoists you bodily against him. You wrap your legs around his waist, resisting the urge to grind against his stomach as he drags you off the counter. There are certainly more downsides to your tiny-ass apartment than there are upsides, but you’re suddenly thanking all the gods that ever existed or didn’t exist that Dan reaches the couch in a matter of seconds and then he’s on top of you, hungrily exploring your prone body as his stubble scrapes your flesh. You yank at his t-shirt, greedy and eager to feel the flushed skin beneath.

                There’s not a shred of innocence left when, after a very brief and borderline frantic exchange about just friends and no strings, he’s kneeling and planting burning kisses along the inside of your thigh as he shimmies your underwear down your legs.

                And then ten minutes later, after one climax that would have been embarrassingly loud had you been at all aware of your neighbors at that point – of anything other than the wet, unrelenting heat of his mouth, really -- he’s fucking you. And as he does it he whispers to you an unexpected, steady stream of filth and praise, interrupted by intermittent noises that are the hottest you’ve ever heard in your life. Deep, rolling thrusts grind you into the cushions as, unbeknownst to you, your nails dig into the skin of his back. Your other hand twists and tears at the fabric of the decorative pillow just above your head, and as you approach that cliff once more, huffing and moaning, you press your face into the meat of your trembling arm.

                 At that moment, the expert fingers working between your thighs suddenly stop and, still slick, graze your chin to gently turn your head forward again. In a broken growl he tells you he wants to see your beautiful face when you cum this time. The even pulse of his hips doesn’t falter during any of this, but it sure does once his hand returns to its place and you’re almost instantly coaxed right over the edge again. With a shaky cry, you go rigid and clench your spasming muscles firmly around his cock, causing his hips to jerk, hard, with a low grunt. They don’t have the chance to find their rhythm again before he’s slack-jawed and squeezing your hip, giving a throaty moan that rattles you to your core as he reaches his own release.

                With a heavy sigh, he drops his face to your shoulder. His slowing breath cools the sweat-slicked skin of your chest. You swallow hard, eyes closed, and wrap your arms around his back as shuddering aftershocks pass through the two of you.

                Eventually, his lips press a kiss just below your collarbone, and you feel his head lift.

                “How you doin’, babygirl?” he asks, nuzzling your nose with his.

                You hum, a dreamy smile spreading over your entire face.

                His laugh is light and airy and exhausted, and he rests his forehead against yours.

                “Holy fuck, that happened,” you say on an exhale.

                “That it did. How are you feeling about it, though? You good? Uncomfortable? Collapsing under the weight of your own regret?” His tone is playful, but you know he’s not playing at all.

                You open your eyes and are momentarily taken aback by the warmth and kindness in his.

                “I’m feeling…” You trace absentminded patterns on the skin of his lower back. “…like this is exactly the kind of thing I need in my life right now.”

                He covers his heart.

                “I _very_ humbly offer myself to contribute to the cause.”

                “Oh, wow,” you giggle, “you’re such a good person.”

                “Oh my god, right?” he says, eyes widening. “Selfless as fuck.”

                You beam up at him and he shifts his weight to his elbow so he can push your hair back off of your forehead.

                “What about you?” you ask. “Any regrets?”

                “Not a one,” he replies, with a sweet and punctuated kiss.

                “Same page!” you cry and present your palm, to his utter delight.

                “Same page!” He high fives you, but wraps his large hand around yours and kisses the back of it. “Okay, prepare yourself.”

                “For wh- AH! Jesus, Danny.”

                “What, not enough warning?” he smirks, carefully slipping off the condom after raising himself to a kneeling position. He’s tying it off when the oven timer sounds.

                “Your monstrosities are ready.” You grin as you sit up and drag the colorful afghan down from behind you.

                “You mean, my little pieces of heaven are ready.” He hops to his feet. “And then a movie tonight? Oh my god, this is the best fucking day ever.” He braces himself against the back of the couch and leans down for another kiss. “Thank you,” he mumbles against your lips.

                “Um, thank _you_ , holy shit. I don’t even think my legs could even support me if I tried to stand right now.”

                He chuckles and backs away just enough so he can see your whole face. His head tilts forward, eyes locked on yours, and when he speaks his voice is low and soft and brimming with sincerity.

                “For real, though. Thank you. For trusting me enough to do this.”

                As a fond feeling warms your chest, you reach up to cup his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones.

                “You’re welcome. I do trust you.”

                His lips curve upwards before they brush your forehead at your hairline. Your eyes flutter closed when they do, and a gentle sigh exhaled through his nose fills you with a distinct sense of peace.

                There’s a pang of disappointment in your belly when he pulls back, but it evaporates when he then gives the front of the afghan draped over your shoulders a light little tug and graces you with a lopsided grin.

                “I don’t know if you can afford the movie, though, dude,” you say, breaking the silence.

                He raises an eyebrow as he crouches to retrieve his boxers.

                “No? Any particular reason?”

                “Because, Pussy Whisperer, you’re going to pay to have my fucking couch reupholstered.”

                He throws his head back and, standing stark naked in your living room, laughs from way down deep. The sound bounces off your walls, and it’s so joyous and unselfconscious that you have no choice but to join him.

                “I am more than happy to take credit for creating that need,” he giggles, wiping at his eye with the back of his wrist.

                “Hey, Dan.”       

                “Yeah.”

                “Cookies?”

                “Oh, fuck yeah!” He yanks his boxers on in one smooth, practiced motion, and then his long legs clear the space between the couch and the kitchen in three strides. “Get ready for this shit.” The oven door screeches and groans as it opens. “…oh. Uh…”

                “Little pieces of heaven?”

                “Fuck off.”

                As he removes the pan from the oven, swearing continuously under his breath when he does so, you nestle back into the couch, content as hell, and realize how immensely relieved you are that you feel exactly zero of the awkwardness for which you’d prepared. You suspect the same of him when he turns to you, eyes sparkling, and offers you the shit in a tray.

               

                It didn’t matter that you’d agreed to enter this casual arrangement with him. It didn’t matter that you’d said yes when he’d asked to kiss you. If the answer had been no, if you hadn’t gotten the opportunity to see god right there in your apartment, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Because when you’re completely honest with yourself later, you have to admit that it started before that. That the seed had been planted the morning you woke up on the bathroom floor with the thoughtful dork in your tub. No matter your decision, you still would have ended up hopelessly, stupidly in love with a man who didn’t want to be with you.

                All rivers lead to the ocean, right?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're weak. You hate yourself for it.

The fan makes another arc, fluttering the sheet as it passes your bed with a dull roar. The white noise, paired with the mostly-dark of early morning, should have been a recipe for a deep, uninterrupted sleep, but you’d given up on trying to fall back into it an hour ago.

You’d awoken to a warm chest pressed into your back, an arm tucked over your waist, and a quiet, steady breathing that stirred your hair. After a few minutes of trying to convince yourself that you didn’t fuck up again -- that the chest and the arm and the breaths _actually_ belonged to the perfectly good man you’d very recently dumped -- you’d finally admitted defeat, acknowledged the damning truth, and wiggled out of the grasp. Your motion had caused him to whimper a bit and he’d shifted, jarring the old cat that had been curled over his hip. In the dim light you’d only just been able to see the glint of her doleful glare before she’d slunk away.

And now here you are, resting back against your headboard with your arms wrapped around your knees, not really resting at all. Your brain is on fire, and has been for a while, with vivid, visceral little snapshots from the night before. The gentle pressure of his hand holding your wrists to the mattress. The tickle of his hair on your cheek. The heat of his breath against your neck, in your ear. The rocky rumble of his voice telling you that you feel incredible. That you look so beautiful laid out under him like this. That the sounds you make get him so fucking hard. That he loves fucking you, do you love it when he fucks you?

Although your logic insists that you not, you turn your head in the direction of the person sleeping next to you, now snoring lightly with one outstretched arm relaxing across your ankles. You can’t see his face, but you can make out the long and lean silhouette. The shape of the curls that floof up when the fan passes again.

You hadn’t meant for him to stay the night this time. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? You never did. Each time is the last time. Each time you die a little more.

With a sigh, you slip out of bed, grab your summer robe, and pad to the bedroom door, lifting it to relieve the weight on the hinges as you silently close it behind you. A gray pre-sunrise penetrates your living room and kitchen, and you’re thankful for the natural, dusky light lazily drifting in as you head to your kitchen to pull out your coffee supplies. After a beat, you also grab your tin of green tea, some honey, and a lemon. He wouldn’t be far behind you. He doesn’t like sleeping alone.

               

Four years of this.

 It had been great at first – casual, sexy fun between two consenting adults who also happened to be close friends. Two people who enjoyed not only being around each other, but also banging one another silly. You hadn’t cared that you were one of many. It hadn’t yet occurred to you that you were in love with him, idiot. Of course you were. It was an inevitability. It just took you a couple months to figure out why your entire being ached so each time he laughed uproariously at a joke you’d made, or reached out to grasp your fingers, or called you up just to say hi, he missed you. It seemed, at first, a total coincidence that every time he announced he was coming into town, you broke things off with whoever you were seeing at the time. Like, immediately, and regardless of the level of seriousness.

You bring your steaming mug of coffee with almond milk over to the window and peer outside, staring pointedly past your haggard reflection and down to the normally bustling streets below. You’re only able to spot a lone jogger and her dog making their way down the sidewalk before the bottom half of the glass fogs up.

Thank fucking christ your place was three hours from his. Living ten minutes away, having that quick and easy access to him, would have been torture. With your relationship as it was, as with any long-distance friendship, there was a natural ebb and flow. At times you talked frequently, usually leading up to -- and for the few weeks following – a visit. As communication would become more and more sporadic, the excruciating vise compressing your chest would tighten sharply…and then begin to ease up. Significantly so. Those were the times when you were possibly able to think about maybe starting to _consider_ looking past this shitty cycle you found yourself in – no, no, this shitty cycle you’d created for yourself. But it never failed – as soon as you’d begin to feel like you were healing, as soon as you’d start to think about a life separate from him, the text would come:

~ 10:24 AM  _Helloooo! I’m coming into town from the 5 th to the 7th and if you’re free for even just two minutes, I would really fucking love to see you._

or

~ 11:17 PM _Hey! I told the laundromat story while we were Grumping today! Let me know if there are any scandalous details you want left out and I’ll pass that along to Matt and Ryan... Also, I miss your face. Can I please, please, please see it soon?_

or

~ 03:51 AM  _I’m not entirely sure I know what fleek is._

BOOM. Right back where you’d started.

Each time you see him, you maintain – to your friends in-the-know and to yourself – that this visit will be a strictly non-contact sport. Each time, you wholeheartedly believe that this is it – your emancipation from your self-destructive bullshit. Yeah, okay.

The previous night was supposed to begin with the two of you hanging out at a mutual friend’s place, and end with him staying over at _their_ apartment. That was the plan. It was cute that you trusted it would go accordingly when _you_ were the one who chose to leave the group game night with him only an hour in (amid a good-natured chorus of boos and a stern expression from your best friend). You couldn’t stay there another minute, though. Not with the way he’d been looking at you.

 It was _you_ who couldn’t even make it to the car. _You_ who dragged him into an alleyway two blocks from the apartment and all but presented like a cat in heat.

_~~_

_“Are you sure this is what you want, babygirl?” he asks, voice ragged and curls brushing your forehead as his hips press you firmly into the rough brick behind you._

_“Danny, please-“ you pant, gripping his shoulders._

_“I’m gonna need a ‘yes,’ beautiful.”_

_“YES.”_

_Faster than you can blink, he’s on his knees and yanking your skirt up around your waist._

_“I was really fuckin’ hoping you’d say that.” He grins devilishly, eyes twinkling, and you have to lean heavily into the wall when he places a soft kiss on the skin of your thigh._

~~

The steamed-up window dribbles a bead of sweat at the same time that you feel a wetness on your face, and for a split second you’re puzzled but then you realize you’re crying.

_‘You’ve got an appointment tomorrow,’_ you remind yourself. _‘You can make it.’_

The bedroom door gives a rusty creak as it opens. You hastily smear away your shame, but you don’t turn around. You already know exactly what you’d see: Warm, sleepy eyes. Warm, sleepy smile. Low-slung pajama pants and no shirt. Bedhead not of this world.

Socked feet shuffle in your direction, and then a pair of long, spindly limbs wind around your chest. The heat of skin against your back and the puff of frizz just in your periphery confirm half of what you’d expected.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” he says dreamily, punctuating the last word with a kiss at the junction of your neck and shoulder.

“Good morning, Danny” you whisper, not trusting your voice. You close your eyes and clasp his forearms, allowing yourself to melt back into him – to just for a moment pretend that this was real life. He squeezes you tighter, and slowly rocks you side to side.

“Thank you so much for letting me crash here last night.”

Your eyes fly open.

Crash here. He may as well have called you “buddy” or “bro” and added a shoulder punch.

It’s what you need, though, and you drop your hold, although he still embraces you.

“Would you let me take you to breakfast? My treat?” His chin comes to rest on your shoulder. “Also, I don’t have to be at the venue until 5, so if you’re free I was thinking…” – a kiss to your temple - “…you wanna go to the zoo today? See some motherfuckin’ majestic beasts?”

You can’t answer his question because you’re suddenly too busy blinking at furious rate to keep the hovering tears in place. A barely detectable nod is all you manage.

“Hey, you ok, babygirl?” His cheek grazes yours and you nod again. “Hey.” With great care he turns you to face him, but you fix your gaze on the worn linoleum. A careful touch tilts your chin up and it physically pains you to see the concern in his eyes. “Talk to me. Please?”

You pull back a little.

‘ _DO IT,’_ your brain tells you. _‘DO IT NOW._ ’

 “Danny, I don’t-“ One drip escapes your eye, burning a trail down the side of your nose.

  _He opened that door for you, now fucking DO IT.’_

 “I don’t think I can do this anymore,” you choke.

‘ _IdiditIdiditFUCKIdidit-‘_

He smiles a little.

He doesn’t understand.

Your inhale shudders when you realize this, and another tear rolls down.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmurs, brushing it away with a careful sweep of his fingers. “That’s fine. Babygirl, that’s fine. If you need to stop the physical stuff for a while? Or for good? You know I’m not going to stop talking to you if you’re not boning me,” he chuckles, then cradles your face as he searches your eyes. “I hope you believe that I value you. I value your friendship. Every aspect of it.”

 A knife to the gut. Your body wants to double over.

You’d put the sex on hold before. _Actually_ put it on hold, as in discussed and agreed upon by the both of you, and not just a wild fantasy in your own delusional mind about “this time” or “next time.” It had happened on a generous handful of occasions over the years, actually. A few times you’d decided it was too much and told him you’d needed to stop. He’d always assumed that you had started dating somebody, because that was always the case when he himself pressed pause, and you’d never bothered to correct him. You’d eventually slip back into it, though, because FUCKING SURPRISE, the dry visits hurt with just as much intensity as the hookup visits - if not more so, because it was easy to forget everything when he was fucking you into next Tuesday. So what was the point?

“You know I love you,” he continues, further twisting the knife. “So much.”

He tells you this all the time. In fact, he’d told you many times the previous night with his hands buried in your hair, groaned the words against your lips again and again as you straddled his thighs and ground your hips against his. Honestly, though, you believed it. It was written all over him, coloring his gaze and his giggle with warmth whenever he witnessed you stumble over your own fucking feet or realize you’d worn your underwear inside out again. It was in the way he’d dropped everything at 2AM and driven the 140 miles to get to you when your dad died a couple years back. It was in the way he was _always_ the first person to call you on your birthday, because he did it at midnight, right on the dot.

It was there, alright. But it was-

 ‘- _not the way I love you,’_ you think. The coffee mug you hadn’t realized you were still clutching begins to slosh its contents onto the floor as it trembles in your grip. You quickly transfer it to the counter behind you.

“I know,” you whisper, not bothering to stop the cascade of silent tears that now, all of a sudden, flowed freely. “Danny, I mean-…any of it. I can’t-“ A single, strangled sob.

A look of surprise and hurt and real fear washes over him as he takes a quarter of a shocked step back.

“You don’t-…” His brow furrows, and his voice is soft and strained. “You don’t want to be my friend anymore?” Another step back finds him against the counter and he leans against it weakly, then shoves a hand into his mass of hair.

“I _can’t_ ,” you croak, as though that correction will ease the blow, while your heart shatters inside you.

“Jesus. I gotta be honest, (y/n), I wasn’t expecting this.” He takes a ragged breath, closing his eyes as the hand fists, pulling his curls too firmly. “Can-…okay, why? Can I ask you why?”

‘ _Because I love you. Because I love you so much it fucking hurts. Because I don’t want to share you anymore. Because it kills me that you run off with a hundred other women when you’re the only one I want. Because I’ve wasted the last half of my 20s pining for a man I can’t have.’_

“I just-…” You fold your arms over your torso and look at your feet, tears rolling down your chin and onto your neck. “It’s too hard.” This is closest you ever had – and ever would -- come to telling him you’re in love with him, and the low-level trembling spills over from your fingers into the rest of you.

“Too hard,” he repeats, almost to himself. After a moment, he steps forward and gently grasps your shoulders. “Babygirl…”

_‘Don’t call me that,’_ you think.

“…I’m so sorry if-...” His tone is raspy and he cuts himself off, sliding his hold down and away. “Fuck, I didn’t-…” This time he doesn’t tilt your face up to look at him. “Listen…I’ve tried the relationship thing. So many times. It just-… _doesn’t fucking work_ for me.”

You regret the words even as they’re leaving your mouth:

“You haven’t tried with me.” _Cringe._ You heat up almost instantly.

You know better. You don’t believe you can change him, and you certainly aren’t naïve enough to think that if he did decide he wanted something serious, you’d be the one with whom he’d settle down.

He sinks back into the counter with a sigh.

“Trust me, (y/n), it’s just-…better for everyone this way. No one gets hurt.”

In that moment, a memory abruptly and aggressively invades your thoughts. A memory of a last-minute, one-day trip down to LA to help a friend move after an eviction. You’d run into Dan at a corner store where you, as requested, had stopped to pick up a six pack. After gently chiding you for not telling him you were in town, he’d enveloped you in hug that had warmed your body from the outside in. It was only as you’d pulled back that you’d noticed the woman standing to his right. _Immediately_ , and with a violent clench of your heart, you’d recognized the hurt in her eyes and you’d known that each of you had accurately determined the nature of his relationship with the other. Then as he’d introduced both of you as his “good friend,” a large part of you had wanted to reach out to her, to embrace her and say, ‘Girl, I fucking know.’

This memory has you seeing red.

 “No one gets hurt?” Your gaze snaps up to his, and you realize then that his eyes are brimming with unshed tears. An ugly scowl contorts your features. “Do you seriously think you’re not leaving a trail of broken hearts wherever you go?” This comes out shriller than you’d intended, and there’s a sick twist of pleasure in your gut when his jaw drops a little.

“Wow, I-…Jesus…” With a deep frown, he takes another pass through his increasingly wild hair. “…That is _not_ fair,” he says, quiet. “I’ve been nothing but honest with-…” He stops.

_‘…with all of them,’_ you finish for him, in your head.

He stares at the ground again and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth.

“I can only control my own actions. I can’t control the reactions of others,” he says finally.

Words you’d heard from your therapist. Words he’d no doubt heard from his.

He’s right, of course. You’d known from fucking _day one_ that he didn’t want a commitment. He’d only ever been honest with you, and you’d spent the last four years pretending you didn’t want to wake up to this fluffy man every morning. Pretending you wouldn’t say yes without hesitation if he’d asked you to marry him. The ball had always been firmly, 100% in your court, and what had you done with it? Use it to slowly and consistently chip away at your own mental health and happiness?

 You’re the only liar in the room, and yet…

“So you just keep doing what you do, right?”

He gapes at you.

“What am I supposed to do, be fucking celibate? Again?”

You want to scream. You want to shake him and tell him it’s not the sex. At least, it’s not just the sex. Not for you, and -- you’d bet a year’s pay on it -- not for the majority of the other women either. It’s what came before, after, in between.

 “Of course not, it’s just-…” Your words leave you and, utterly defeated, you slither down the cupboards until you’re on the floor.

Across from you, he does the same.

There’s a long silence -- during which you hide your face on your knees after hugging them to your chest -- before he speaks again, just above a whisper.

“I don’t want to fight with you.”

_‘Of course you don’t,’_ you think, _‘that’s a commitment thing.’_

“Can we please just-…let me take you to breakfast. Please?” The entwined hope and sadness in his words almost knock the wind out of you, and your fingers clench in the fabric of your robe as you struggle for air.

_“He is a good guy,”_ your friends say, too often. _“But he’s_ so _bad for you.”_

You want to tell him no. You want to tell him never again.

He loves you. He knows you love him, but he doesn’t know the extent to which you do. He doesn’t know that you used to be _so good_ at dating, at building a relationship with somebody, but now each attempt is a short-lived, self-fulfilling prophecy. That you play Grumps videos late at night just so you can fall asleep. That you plummet into a deep depression each time he leaves, and getting out of it sometimes requires the help of a professional.

If he did, he would end it. It would be cruel not to, and while he was many things, Dan Avidan was not cruel. If you told him right now, the ball would finally be in his court and not weighing heavily in your own hands as it had for half a decade. It would be his responsibility and you could, at long last, breathe.

 “Please, babygirl?” A hesitant touch, vibrating just slightly, graces your arm.

He’s simply got too much love in his heart to share with just one person. You give yourself that excuse often.

You lift your forehead from your damp knees, and there’s a hard twist of your heart when you see that his own cheeks are wet.

“…Okay.”

With a watery inhale, he smiles through tears and squeezes your elbow.

“Okay.”

 

Next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I did it! I posted an entire story, aah!
> 
> Thank you so, so, so much for reading and adoring this (seemingly) amazing man with me!
> 
> Also, I formatted this chapter a little differently...

**Author's Note:**

> * Holy shit, it's been nearly a decade since I last wrote fanfic! This lovely dork inspired me to start again, as did the amazing pieces I've read on this site - this is my first AO3 fic, as well as my first Dan Avidan fic, but I've been reading and loving your Danny stories for months under the name "obsessiondork." I'm awkward.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! ConCrit welcomed!


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